The Ties that Break
by starry19
Summary: Post 1x16 - "Jess's death had almost destroyed him. And then…then he'd met Lucy Preston, rattling on about how her bra shouldn't have an underwire in the 30s. It was inevitable, what his heart had done."
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** Well, hi there. I've clearly fallen down the rabbit hole of fandom life again. First completed TImeless fic, set immediately post-Red Scare. Wyatt x Lucy, obviously. Please let me know what you think!

 **The Ties that Break**

Lucy's self-assigned hour came and went.

Even though this set alarm bells ringing in his mind, he gave her ten more minutes. After all, he reasoned, sometimes life happened. Maybe there was an accident somewhere and traffic was blocked up. Maybe she hit a snag with whatever it was she was up to.

He knew better though. They were going to save her sister. She would have literally left her car in traffic and walked to Mason Industries. And she would have called to let him know, because that was just the type of person she was.

When eight of the allotted ten minutes had passed, he went to his locker and retrieved his sidearm.

He was on his way to the door when he spotted her from the window. Even from a distance, he knew something was wrong.

He sprinted.

Lucy didn't look up until he was ten feet from her. The expression on her face was startling - she was…shocked, devastated. Lost.

"Are you okay?" he demanded. "Are you hurt?" He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, could feel the fierce urge to protect her, to destroy whatever had hurt her, whatever it was.

But she said nothing. Instead, she just walked forward until she was pressed against him, face in his neck, fingers gripping fistfuls of his shirt.

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her, the need to know what happened almost a palpable thing.

"Lucy, tell me," he murmured to her hair. "Please."

He felt her trembling for a second before she started sobbing.

Automatically, he tightened his hold, sliding one hand up to the back of her head. He had never seen her like this. In tears a few times, certainly. But not this.

"You're alright," he breathed, at a loss for what else to do. "It's okay. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you." He meant it, even if he wasn't sure what he was protecting her from. It didn't matter, after all.

She took a deep, shaking breath, like she was going to speak, then broke off again, arms under his jacket. He could feel her tears on his neck.

So he did his job - he was her strength, her shoulder to lean on. He was steady when she wasn't.

Rufus appeared in the stairwell, clearly wondering where the hell they were and why they weren't currently in the seventies. He stopped dead when he saw them - and then he looked closer, face changing from surprise to alarm as he realized he wasn't interrupting some lovers tryst.

"What happened?" he demanded,but quietly.

He shrugged as best he could with Lucy wrapped around him. "I don't know yet," he said, just as quietly.

Abruptly, Lucy stepped back, furiously swiping at her eyes. As shaken as she was, he didn't quite trust her to stand on her own, so he kept one hand on her waist.

"I need to talk to both of you," she finally managed to say. Then she sniffled. It was almost dignified.

"Yeah," Rufus deadpanned. "I was kind of figuring that."

He made her sit on the concrete steps, Rufus leaning against the rail to the left. He sat at her side, their shoulders touching, just making sure she knew he was there if she needed him.

And then she started speaking.

He felt his jaw drop.

Rufus mirrored his expression.

There was a tense silence as she finished her story. He wondered if _oh, shit_ was an appropriate response because it was the only thing he could think of.

God, what a nightmare for Lucy. As screwed up as these missions had been, she had lost the most. And now it kept getting worse. Her whole life, every memory she had of her mother, was a lie.

In a show of solidarity, Rufus dropped to Lucy's other side, wincing slightly as his stitches pulled. She wasn't alone - she had both of them.

"What do you want us to do?" he asked.

Slowly, she shook her head. "I don't know. I have no idea right now." Her voice wavered. "I just can't think anymore today."

Gently, he bumped Lucy, trying to tell her it would be alright. He didn't know that, but he did know he was going to do whatever it took to help her. She sighed, deeply, then tipped her head to his shoulder.

"Will you take me home?" she whispered, eyes closed.

"Yes," he replied, lips brushing her hair.

For a moment, he considered just picking her up and carrying her to his truck. Then she sighed again and rose, one hand braced on his shoulder.

Rufus eyed them both speculatively. "Let me know what the plan is. I think, personally, we need to do some serious ass kicking."

Lucy made an attempt at a smile. "How's Jiya?" she asked.

"She's fine," Rufus replied, but a little too quickly. Lucy didn't notice, but he did. But now was not the time.

Following his natural instincts, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Lucy's narrow frame before settling a guiding hand at the small of her back.

She frowned at his shoulder holster. "Why are you armed?" It seemed like a vastly unimportant question, given the circumstances, but maybe she was just looking for normal topics of conversation. Well, normal for their bizarre life.

"You weren't back when you said you'd be," he answered. "I knew something was wrong. I was actually on my way to find you when you showed up."

He couldn't quite interpret the look she gave him. She didn't speak again as he drove, but at a red light, he reached over laced their fingers. Her lips quirked very slightly. She didn't pull away.

Nor did she put up a protest when he insisted on doing a thorough check of her house, opening closets and checking under the bed. Everything was neat, organized. Feminine. And completely lacking Rittenhouse minions. He holstered his pistol.

Lucy had curled up on the couch, feet tucked underneath her, his coat still around her shoulders. She looked lost.

Without asking, he started rifling through cupboards in the kitchen until he found wineglasses. There was a half-full bottle of Moscato in the refrigerator. He tugged the cork out and filled both glasses almost to the brim.

"Drink it," he said, handing Lucy her glass and taking his place beside her on the couch. "All of it," he added.

"You sip wine," she protested, glass halfway to her lips.

"Not today, you don't," he answered.

It was gone in two minutes. He handed her the second glass.

"Trying to get me drunk?" she asked.

"Yup. It'll be good for you."

She raised an eyebrow, but took a small sip.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I'll hold your hair if you start throwing up."

She snorted. "Thanks. You're sweet."

They lapsed into silence. Lucy closed her eyes, head tipped back. He studied her profile. God, she really was beautiful.

"Wyatt?" she murmured.

"Hm?"

She sighed. "What the hell am I going to do?"

He scooted an inch closer. "Well, right now, you're going to get drunk in your living room."

One eye cracked open. "And then what?"

"Then we're ordering pizza because you can't exist entirely on wine."

She smiled.

"Then what?"

He gently ran a finger down her arm. "Then I'm going to tuck you in and you're hopefully going to pass out. And that's our plan for the day."

"One problem at a time," she whispered.

"Exactly," he told her.

An hour later, she was curled into his arms, head against his chest, sound asleep. Or passed out drunk. Whatever.

He was glad he was there. He was glad to be needed. For years, after Jess, he'd felt like the entire universe was sending him a message that he was useless. That he couldn't even save the woman he loved.

But now, another woman he loved needed him. And he _would_ save her.

It was terrifying thing, being where he was now. He had seen and done a great deal with Delta Force. And he had seen and done more than he had ever imagined with this ridiculous time machine. Jess's death had almost destroyed him. And then…then he'd met Lucy Preston, rattling on about how her bra shouldn't have an underwire in the 30s. It was inevitable, what his heart had done.

She loved him, he knew that. It was humbling.

He has suspected before, but had known it the night he had told her he and Rufus were stealing the Lifeboat. Her tears, the way she'd looked at him. He was choosing Jessica over her. He'd broken her heart, and she didn't blame him for it for a moment.

He'd broken a few hearts before, but it had never hurt like that.

And then, she'd put her arms around him after he'd escaped custody, and he knew it was all over.

He was a profoundly damaged man. She loved him in spite of it.

He wouldn't let her down, not this time.

Gently, trying not to wake her, he kissed the top of her head.

It had been a long time since a woman had slept in his arms. Even longer since he actually wanted the woman for more than just a blessed escape from pain. He remembered what this was like, the peace that came with just existing next to someone he loved.

She was soft, smelled sweet. He would sit here all night if she needed him to, and he certainly hoped she did.

After the years of being closed off, he was ready to cross lines, ready to jump in with both feet. All it took was some crazy time travel missions with a petite brunette whose brain contained all the knowledge of an entire set of encyclopedias.

She was brave, fiercely so, and wholly damaged.

Her fingers were hooked into his belt loops as she slept. She didn't have to worry - he wasn't going anywhere.

This new fight they were in - and he knew it was a fight - had pushed him over the rest of his hurdles. He was in. He was hers. And he would be her anchor, her rock, when she needed it.

He had kissed her once. Not long ago, though really, eighty years before. At a kitchen table, right across from some certifiably insane lovers. And he had meant it, had put all of the things he hadn't wanted to feel for her in it.

Had almost kissed her again, later, in the world's narrowest bed, listening to her talk about possibilities, wrapped in lace and satin, and given another moment, he would have.

Would have rolled to his side, would have run a finger across the wings of her collarbone, would have kissed her so thoroughly she would have forgotten her name.

No, he wasn't ready to say goodbye. Not now.

Lucy shifted against him, and he waited while her eyes fluttered open. "Hey," she whispered.

"Hey yourself," he said, adjusting his hold on her slightly. "Nice nap?"

Her smile was soft, flirtatious. "I've slept in worse places."

He smiled. "Glad to hear it."

Lucy sighed, stretched a bit, then returned her head to its spot on his chest. "What are we going to do?" she asked, and he knew she wasn't talking about their relationship.

"We'll think of something," he said, hoping he sounded confident. "We've come this far. We can surely get the rest of these bastards."

She let out a short, unamused laugh. "I'm one of them, Wyatt. I'm Rittenhouse royalty. At least, according to my mother I am."

Abruptly, he tilted her chin up, forced her to meet his eyes. "You are _not_ ," he said. "You need to understand that. Whatever your family is or was, you are not one of them."

She held his gaze. She had clearly made some sort of deal with the devil for those eyes. Slowly, she nodded, though he knew this wasn't the last time they would be having this conversation. He let his hand fall away.

"So," she said, switching to a lighter topic. "You said something about pizza?"

He laughed, then reached for his phone. Lucy sat up to allow him easier access to his pockets, slipping out of his jacket as well. While he ordered, she collected the wine glasses. He heard the quiet _chink_ as she sat them in the sink.

He ended the call, then found her in the kitchen, apparently deep in thought. He touched her arm. "What's up?"

She forced the ghost of a smile. "Just thinking," she said. "I used to wear this locket," she went on, hurriedly, like she had decided to tell him and needed to get the words out before she changed her mind. "It had a picture of my mom and Amy and me. After…after Amy, it was the only evidence I had that she ever existed, that we were ever happy. And now, I mean, now…that picture is a lie. It's not real."

He said nothing, waiting for her to get the rest out.

"Is anything in my life real?" she asked, voice sharper. "I spend my days hopping through time, fighting a shadow organization, I just broke up with my fiancé whose last name I learned a month ago, and now half of my family is either wiped out or evil. I mean, what the hell?" A tear slid out of the corner of her eye. He thumbed it away.

"I'm real," he told her.

She looked up at him, eyes fathoms deep. She was hurt and afraid, backed into a corner.

"I'm real," he said again. "And you know my last name." There was a moment of fraught silence. Then, "Come here," he whispered.

And she did.

He kissed her.

Softly at first, then thoroughly, filing away every memory of what made her sigh, what made her fingers tug on his hair, what made her stand on her toes to reach him. She tasted like a ten dollar bottle of Moscato, and he was lost.

After, they still stood tangled together in her kitchen, her chin resting on his shoulder, his hands tracing abstract patterns down her back.

"Are you gonna tell me that one was just to convince someone we were a couple?" she teased.

He chuckled. "You knew damn well that wasn't true."

He felt her smile. "I did," she agreed. "But it's still nice to hear."

The doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he stepped back and started down the hall.

Sometimes, the absurdity of being able to do something completely normal like order pizza entertained him. He had been in the middle of jungles, of deserts, had wandered through the French and Indian War. And yet, he could make one phone call and have food delivered.

Lucy was perched on a barstool at the counter when he returned, and for just a second, he was profoundly thankful, a feeling he had been entirely unfamiliar with for a long time.

They were both here, together. The fight would continue, and they would be here for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Oh, my God, you guys! I am amazed and humbled by your responses to this! It's always scary posting a story in a new fandom, but wow!

Indulge me for a second here - a need to give a huge shout out to The Mentalist fandom. Some of you already watched Timeless, some of you read chapter one without ever seeing the show, and SOME OF YOU BINGED THE ENTIRE SERIES just so you COULD read part one (looking at you, Crazer Cat!) YOU. GUYS. ARE. AMAZING.

So now this - I wasn't planning on a part 2 for this particular piece, but hey, things happen. This is also my first attempt at Lucy's POV. I have a harder time getting in her head than Wyatt's for whatever reason, and I'm not precisely thrilled with how it turned out. But hey, practice makes perfect or something.

 **The Ties that Break**

 **Part II**

She awoke in the darkness with the nagging feeling that something terribly important had happened in the hours before she'd fallen asleep, but no clear explanation of what it might have been.

Her head was foggy, dense, and more than a little achy. Hungover? What the hell? She was definitely in her room, in her bed, but there was something different…

She shifted slightly, and her fingers brushed someone's hand. Her breath caught, and it all came back.

 _Wyatt._

She sat bolt upright, head pounding alarmingly, squinting into the darkness. There was just enough light from the hallway to see the outline of his face. Yes, definitely Wyatt, relaxed as he slept.

He was, thank God, fully clothed. Not that she was opposed to the idea, sort of the opposite, but there were certain things a girl wanted to remember.

And speaking of remembering…

Oh, God.

Her mother.

The throbbing in her temples intensified, and for a moment, she wondered if she was going to be sick. She threw herself out of bed, held onto the hallway wall as she made her way to the bathroom.

A liberal application of cold water on her face made the world spin at a normal speed. Her reflection in the mirror, however, told her she didn't _look_ normal. Not at all.

Her eyes were too dark, face was too pale.

Her mouth tasted like yesterday's news. With slightly shaking hands, she reached for her toothbrush.

Wyatt was awake when she made it back to her room. Ignoring how awkward this all suddenly felt, she crawled back under the covers.

Apparently Wyatt felt no such compunctions. "You okay?" he asked, propped up on one elbow.

"Hm?" she asked, stupidly. Then, "Yes, yes of course. I'm fine."

It was too dark to see his face properly, but she could _feel_ him raise an eyebrow. "Uh huh. I did promise to hold your hair back if you threw up, you know."

Her lips twitched. Yes, she remembered. "Considering you were the one that got me drunk in the first place…"

She heard his smile in his voice. "It was good for you."

This was absurd. She was laying in bed, next to Wyatt Logan, after her entire world had been turned on its head, _again_ , for like, the fourth time since the Department of Homeland Security had shown up her house, and they were talking about hangovers.

Wyatt reached for her, hands reassuringly warm, and she gratefully rested her head on his chest, his t-shirt soft under her cheek.

This had been the wildest day of her life. And that was saying something, considering the things she'd gotten up to in the past few months.

First, elation that she was going to get Amy back. Amy, her collateral damage, her reminder that you _should not_ change history.

Then, quiet jubilation and fierce hope about what was going to happen with Wyatt. His admission that he wasn't ready to say goodbye had caused her heart to jump into her throat. Given another minute, she might have thrown caution to the wind and kissed him.

Given another minute, _he_ might have kissed _her._

But then, first, she needed to go have one of the most difficult conversations of her life. Telling her mother that she was consciously making the choice to give her cancer again. But she knew her mother - she would give all of that and more for Amy.

And then the universe had swung violently around on its axis.

Lost and broken, she had instinctively turned to the most solid person in her life. She didn't remember driving back to Mason Industries, but suddenly she had been there, had been in Wyatt's arms.

He was warm and steady and had promised her that everything was going to be alright and she so, _so_ wanted to believe him.

One of his hands was tangled in her hair, cupped around the back of her head. This was one of her favorite versions of Wyatt - the one that held her and let her know she was safe.

They were quiet for a few minutes, their breathing and the soft rustling of sheets the only sounds. She didn't precisely recall how Wyatt had wound up in her bed, but it didn't matter much. She assumed she probably asked him. There had been more wine after the pizza.

Her hand was against his stomach. In a purely shallow part of her brain, she appreciated the easy play of muscle as he breathed. For just a second, she wanted to giggle. She was in bed with G.I. Joe.

She closed her eyes.

She'd lost track of the times she'd imagined this moment. The reality of it was so far off that it was laughable. This should just teach her to be careful of what she wished for. Yes, she was in his arms in the middle of the night after making out with him in her kitchen.

But.

Literally nothing else in her life was the way it should be.

Silently, she sighed.

There were things she needed to think about. Was her mother a member of Rittenhouse in the original timeline, the right timeline? The one with Amy? It seemed likely.

Her mother had said there was an assassin aboard the Mothership. Who was that? What were they going to do? Take the ship, obviously. But where? And who was the pilot going to be?

That was what she had to focus on. They were still at war, still in a fight. It was more important than ever that they won.

They were going to need some help.

"Wyatt," she said abruptly, not opening her eyes.

"Yeah?" he murmured.

"We have to break Flynn out of jail." The words were calm, utterly matter-of-fact.

She felt Wyatt tense under her hands. There was a long pause where she could practically see him thinking. "And why exactly do we need to do that?"

She sat up, and his arm fell to her waist. "Because we need allies. And if there was ever someone who was assuredly not Rittenhouse, it would be Garcia Flynn."

The argument he was going to make kept dying on his tongue. Because he knew she was right.

"I don't trust him," he finally said. "In case you forgot, he tried to have Rufus killed."

"Obviously, I can't defend that," she admitted. "But you know as well as I do that everything he's done has been in pursuit of wiping out Rittenhouse. He doesn't care about who gets in the way, as long as it takes him closer to his goal. I mean, he's had plenty of opportunity to do me harm and he hasn't."

Wyatt's face darkened. "Yeah, I remember. I also remember Flynn sending Rufus and me right into the arms of a serial killer."

Involuntarily, she shivered. That was a mission she would like to forget, for so many reasons.

"Wyatt," she said again. It was an entreaty.

He let out a breath, ran his free hand through his hair.

"I don't like this," he told her.

She shrugged. "I don't either, but we don't exactly have a lot of options."

Her head was starting to bother her again. She rubbed her temples. Wyatt pulled her back down.

She wondered if they could be like this tomorrow or if it was just for tonight. If there were rules that could be broken in crisis in the dark of night that would reappear in the morning.

"Go to sleep," he whispered. "I don't think any of our problems are going to disappear overnight."

"My hangover might," she suggested, and he chuckled.

And, despite her errant thoughts, despite the anxiety that was lurking just beneath the surface, there was something entirely peaceful about being where she was. There was a steady heart beating beneath her ear, deft fingers tracing down her spine.

In the morning, she was laying on her other side, Wyatt wrapped around her, his nose almost touching the back of her neck.

She wanted to stretch, but refused to do anything that would potentially disrupt her current position.

It was the third time she had woken in his arms. All in the last twelve hours. But definitely something she was looking forward to doing again.

Quietly, she watched the patch of sunlight on the floor slowly creep and spread. They were in a bubble right now, where the outside couldn't touch them, where the nightmare that was waiting didn't matter for the moment.

Gradually, she became aware that he was awake. Maybe it was his breathing, maybe it was a subtle shift in the way he held her. But she knew he was there with her, knew he felt the same strange forbearance that she did.

"Morning," he murmured into her hair.

"Hi," she whispered back.

"How're you feeling?"

She shrugged as best she could. "Fine, I think. Just trying to plan our next moves."

He caught her fingers, laced them with his. "Remember - one problem at a time."

It went against her nature, not to focus on the big picture at all times, but Wyatt's methods had gotten them out of a few sticky situations before. Fine - problem number one was probably letting Agent Christopher know about her brand new family revelations.

And to solve that problem, she needed to go find her phone. Which meant getting out of bed. Not something she particularly wanted to do. Especially when Wyatt's lips were currently brushing her shoulder when he spoke.

"So I couldn't help but notice that your refrigerator was alarmingly empty yesterday," he said. "Since you weigh about ten pounds, I'm not surprised, but I do need to actually eat real food. Especially since I think I have to plan a federal prison break."

She chuckled. Her life was utterly absurd.

But would she change it?

That was the thing.

 _So much_ would be better. Amy would be here, for one.

But her mom would be sick.

She wouldn't know her parents were part of some creepy, Illuminati-esque shadow organization.

But they would _still_ be.

She wouldn't have been captured by the person who literally invented the term serial killer.

But she wouldn't have met Abraham Lincoln, Josephine Baker, ridden with the Lone Ranger, picked a lock with Harry Houdini, drank hooch with Bonnie and Clyde.

Wouldn't be here, in this moment, with Wyatt.

If this strange new world she found herself in had taught her anything, it was that it was impossible to figure out what changing the past did. Some things were simply fate. You could change the cause, change the timeline, and it would still happen.

In the end, this was a useless train of thought. There was no going back, not now. Like she told Wyatt, it was time to focus on the present, and all the challenges that came with it.

They were literally out to save the world.

For a second, she had a shiver of desperate nostalgia for the life where she just gave lectures about Lyndon Johnson's genitals.

But then she rolled over, met Wyatt's impossibly blue eyes, and knew that her choice was already made. He had the courage to be here, to move forward.

The least she could do was be here with him.

Abruptly, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. Hard.

He smirked. "Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?" His thumb swept across her bottom lip.

"I need a reason?" she demanded, but returned his grin. "Just…just thank you, I guess."

His eyes grew serious. "Lucy, I'm in this as much as you are, even if it was originally for different reasons. You don't need to thank me." Then his tone changed. "However, if you, you know, feel the need to thank me in this particular manner again, I probably won't object."

She swatted at his chest. Still, she was grateful that she had this one moment, one light-hearted memory to hold onto. She had a feeling that instances of humor were going to be scarce in the future.

"Ready?" she asked, finally sitting up.

"Ready," he replied, following her lead.

"Okay," she said, very calmly. "Let's go save the world."


End file.
